Adrift
by midnightluck
Summary: M'gann gets tossed through time, or possibly dimensions, and ends up on a ship on the high seas. Featuring sirens, sea battles, and sewing; watch out, pirates, here comes Megan!


All recognizable characters belong to their respective owners (DC). Written for a prompt on YJ_Anon_Meme.

* * *

><p>She knows they'll find her. She's not really worried. Everyone on the team has been thrown through time or dimensions or space at least once, and they've always come home safe and (mostly) sound. It was her turn to be kidnapped, anyways.<p>

So, no, Megan knows that her team will show up. Probably suddenly and in just the nick of time.

In the meantime, she follows SOP and tries to fit in with her surroundings. Only, on a ship on the ocean, there's not really any place to hide.

"Lookit what I found," a man growls, clutching her arm tightly. He's big, like six feet and change, and twice as wide. He's missing about half his teeth, but it doesn't seem to bother him the way it's bothering Megan. "A stowaway, we have here. And a _girlie_."

The captain is grizzled, old, but still quick and clever. Megan finds herself mildly disappointed; she had been half-hoping for a dashing young rogue. "Now, how did you get on board?" The man asks suspiciously, and he's got a criss-cross scar across his nose and cheek. It seems to affect his mouth as well, because he only talks out of one side of it. "Speak up, wench!"

Oh, that's not nice. "My name is Megan," she says, chin up, back straight. "I came aboard your fine vessel quite by accident, and I'd be happy to leave, if you'll only unhand me."

The captain's eyes twinkle at her from under the brim of his hat. "You'll leave, huh? What, just fly away, off over the ocean?"

"Yes," says Megan, still trying to stare him down. "That was the plan."

And the captain throws back his head and laughs, and the man holding her arm is smiling at her, and it's actually quite off-putting with only the few teeth. "Ye've got some backbone in you, don'tcha, lass?"

And Megan smiles back, because he really does seem to be a nice man. "Yessir," she says, because being polite never costs anything.

There's a crowd around them now, and they're a bit dirty and a bit ugly, but she beams around at them anyways.

Megan _loves_ making new friends.

* * *

><p>She's sitting on an empty box in the corner of the dirty cell they've stuck her in, twiddling her fingers together. No one's answered her mental seekings, and she decides that maybe she should change her clothes a bit. You know, a more pirate-y look.<p>

She shifts through a variety of outfits in quick succession, and decides on a loose shirt. It's cut like the kind she saw the men wearing, only with a bit of a ruffle around the sleeves. She manifests some trousers, brown and loose, and then frowns at the whole thing.

It gathers a dingy coating, and the trousers pick up a patch or two. The shirt rips itself and mends the tear, leaving a visible mark.

Much better.

She toys with adding a scarf around her hips, changing the color and weave. She's messing with the end of it, fluctuating between ragged, hemmed and tasseled, when Matthew strides by.

He glances at her, and does a double take. "Where'd you get the clothes?" he asks.

"Er," Megan responds, and thinks that maybe this 'fit in' thing is harder than she thought. "I'm...handy with sewing?" she tries.

And she is, actually. It's been about a year and half since she learned how not to burn cookies. Baking and cooking had gone so well that she'd had more time to branch out. And with the sheer amount of shirts Superboy went through in a week, sewing had seemed a great art to try.

"Are you now," Matthew states, clearly disbelieving. Then he says, "Well, if you're good as all that at summoning clothes from thin air, perhaps you'll be able to mend my jacket."

"I'd be delighted!" she says, sensing a chance to make friends. She jumps up and approaches the bars. He growls, and she backs off a bit. He drops the jacket through the bars, and then steps back. Megan approaches it meekly, and when she's got a good grip, she scuttles back to her perch on the box. And then she says sheepishly, "Actually...I'm all out of thread?"

Matthew pulls something from his pocket and tosses it at her. She catches it, and it's rough and coarse and not at all what she'd choose, but it's workable. He's watching her closely, and it's a little unnerving, all told. So she reaches into a pocket that wasn't there a second ago, and transmutes a needle onto the end of her finger. She threads the needle carefully, and begins.

* * *

><p>It only takes a week or so before they begin forgetting to lock the cell door. Everyone's so happy with the socks that keep warm and the jackets without holes that they've decided she can't be all bad. She blushes at their compliments and takes the fabric they give her, and she makes it better. A nip here, a tuck there, add a dart and let out the hem.<p>

She's always had an eye for fashion; television gave her that much, at least.

As she sits on deck one day, mending a rough shirt, mindlessly adding a hem, she reflects that this must be the nicest dressed pirate crew on the ocean.

* * *

><p>"Hi, Stanley," she says, holding out his hat. "Here's your hat; I fixed the trim and reinforced the lining."<p>

"Thankee, m'girl," he says, placing it jauntily on his head.

They all call her "m'girl" now, or "lass." It's exciting.

Stan turns back to his pots, and she drifts over closer.

"What are you making?" she asks, leaning over to take a sniff. "Oh. My. That's...certainly strong." her smile is just a little forced.

"No need to gussy it up, lass," Stan chortles. "It's a right pig's breakfast, no two ways about it. But we don't got a proper cook, we ain't got much in the way of rations, and there ain't time to spare cooking namby-pamby meals."

Megan smells the...stew? soup? again, but a little more delicately this time. She hums for a second and then snaps her fingers. "Tarragon," she says. "And rosemary."

"Whazzat?" Stan wants to know, but Megan's already flitting around, looking into all the crates nobody's bothered to open.

"Here," she says, dumping a handful of spices into the pot. "You can live on rations from here until forever if only you've got enough rosemary."

Stan pushes his new hat back to scratch at his head. "If you say so, lass," he says doubtfully. But she's back among the crates, peering under lids and smelling everything she can get her hands on.

"Salt!" she cheers, dumping some in. "And a dash of this stuff, I'm not sure what it is, but it smells right, and just a hint of spiciness to cover up the burned taste."

Stan keeps stirring, shaking his head as the girl runs around. When they'd found her in the hold, dizzy and confused, they'd been sure she was an enemy or a spy. But looking at her now, it was hard to see why.

"There!" She takes his spoon, stirs briskly, and then ladles a little out. "I used to burn things all the time, couldn't follow a recipe to save my life, that was me. But here, try this!"

He doesn't really want to know what she's done to his tried-and-true stew, but she's looking up at him with that _smile_ and those _eyes_. So he reluctantly takes a small sip of the broth.

* * *

><p>Humming as she goes around the kitchen clad in her new apron, Megan waves to Stan as he ascends the ladder. "Don't forget to pick me some fruit!" she calls after him, and he waves a hand negligently back. "Vegetables too, if you can find them!"<p>

It's just a little island in the middle of nowhere, but it's still exciting to her. She's on a _pirate ship_, and they found an _uncharted island_, and she's fitting in just like she's supposed to.

Leaving the potatoes to boil, she takes the unobserved moment to float up the ladder, only grabbing the last rung to climb out. "William!" she greets, "How's the leg?"

"Better, m'girl," he grins, and she beams back. He's thin as a rake and only has the one eye, but he's got the best stories, from sailing to stealing to lies about adventures. "Coming on land today?"

"No, thanks!" she says. "I've got dinner to prepare, and I promised Garret I'd mend his jacket. Maybe next time."

"Suit yourself," he calls back, already swinging himself over the side.

"Megan!" Jason says. "And how's the little lady today? Still too busy to elope with me?"

She laughs, a blush high in her cheeks. Jason's about ten years too old for her, and married besides.

His son Jack elbows him in the ribs and says, "Cut it out, dad! She's gonna run off with me, I told you!" Jack just turned thirteen, but it doesn't stop him from reciting bad poetry at her and attempting to woo her with knots.

She blows a kiss at them both, and skips up the stairs, her new ruffly skirt dancing about her knees. "Captain!" she says, crashing to a stop in front of him and throwing off a salute.

"At ease." He knows she's playing, and she knows he's playing along, and she just has to laugh.

"Yessir," she throws back, and presses a kiss to his stubbly old cheek. "I brought you the last apple," she confides, pressing it into his hand.

"And I thank you kindly, miss Megan," he says, and grabs her hand, apple and all. He twirls her aroundabout once, and lets go, keeping the withered old fruit.

Her green eyes sparkle with joy, her red hair dances in the wind, and she tosses him a wink and skips off.

Captain Jacob sighs, watching her leave. The legends say it's bad luck to have a woman on board, and they still don't know how she arrived, or where she keeps getting clothes from. But he watches her cut a swathe of chaos and laughter across the deck, and he smiles.

He didn't want to keep her, not at first. Now, he'll be sad to see her go.

* * *

><p>"The siren," William says, drawing out the vowels. In the dark, with the ship creaking and the lantern swinging, the shadows dance and the story comes to life.<p>

"It's a legend all sailors know. Drawn from back and back and back, from when the seas were young and the wind was mighty. She sings, they say. Green as Saint Elmo's Fire, and she burns just as bright. From the sea she rises, and floats in the air, and to the sea she returns men.

"There was a girl, see? A girl just like you. She was young and pretty and wild, with fire in her eyes and adventure in her blood. Red hair, she had, like flame. Just like you. And she roamed the seas, going from to ship to ship, wanting to see the world.

"Only, this one night, there was a storm. Blew up out of nowhere, it did. And the crew secured the lines and battened the hatches, and they clung on for dear life. The captain lashed himself to the wheel, like captains still do today. And if the storm was bad, the waves were worse, and the winds were a terror.

"And somewhere along the line, a rope snapped!" And someone does snap a rope, and Megan jumps right out of her skin. She just barely remembers to let gravity pull her back down, amidst the laughter at her expense.

William coughs, and the crowd settles back down. "And the captain was caught in a wave, about to go over. But the girl, she jumped in, pushing through the wind to hand him a new rope. She clung to the captain's hand, and he held on, but it wasn't, couldn't be enough. And over she went, down into the depths of the sea.

"And you might think that that'd be the end, but not quite. Because see, somewhere along the line, it happened that no one could remember her name. So they set up an empty grave with an empty tombstone. But the girl was angry, and they say she still can't rest. Not until someone, someday remembers her name."

* * *

><p>It's three weeks to the day that she appeared that the crew is attacked.<p>

It's the middle of the day, but it's overcast and sprinkling. There's a storm a'coming, and it'll be on them soon. This isn't the time to fighting, she thinks.

Someone shoves her down below, and the crew draws their weapons. She pops right back up, cutlass in hand. Someone's got to guard their backs.

The ships trade volleys, and no permanent damage is done. And then they're in too close for even the broadside guns, and they stand firm, preparing to be boarded.

The battle is joined.

M'gann is used to battle. She's used to fighting, she knows tactics and strategy, and she knows how to keep a calm head. But William's bleeding, and his leg was already bad. Jake's grinning though he's got blood running down his side, and he's doing his very best to kill. The captain is there, moving with grace that belies his age, and he doesn't hesitate to shoot a man through the head. Her crew, her friends are killing. And what's worse is, they're losing.

There's blood and cordite in the air, and the screams of pain and the sounds of suffering, and there are _people dying_ here. And then there's the splash of some poor soul hitting the water.

The water.

She tucks in and runs for the far side of the deck, dropping her sword along the way. "Megan!" someone calls in terror, but she takes the chance to plant a foot on the rail and leap out into air.

Her shirt lengthens, dropping into a dress, flowy and white. She adds ruffles with a thought, dropping the trousers and boots, letting the human coloring seep out of her skin. He hair's unbound, and she lets the wind whip it around. She raises her arms and floats up and up and over.

And then she hums.

It's not a tune or a melody, but a single steady note. Only, she reinforces it with a mental resonance that sets every man's head abuzzing. Then she projects, just a little.

So when they look up, she's glowing, and maybe a bit bigger than normal. The clouds are rolling in, and she couldn't have picked a more perfect backdrop if she'd tried.

Swords hit the decks and the enem—the other crew scramble back to their own ship, hacking the lines that bind them together.

She thinks she hears screams.

So she hums, and slides the note gently up the register, reinforcing it mentally, letting it burn in the base of their skulls.

The other ship puts out oars, and the pace is frantic. Finally wind fills their sails, and she drifts after them, fading in and out of vision as she goes.

"No death in my name!" She calls out after them, adding a scale to the middle, and making sure it carries.

But the wind is picking up, and the storm is rolling in, so she flies back over to her crew. She gentles her descent, touching down slowly on the rail. She lets the dress fade back into her normal clothes, and steps gracefully down to the deck.

There is a moment of total silence, then William breathes, "Spirit."

"Siren," is passed through the crowd in whispers, and there is much uneasy shifting.

"Saviour," Captain Jacob says. "Thank you."

"I'm just Megan," she protests, but it doesn't help.

There's a stirring in the crowd, and murmuring. Megan holds her breath. Which way will they swing?

But she'll wonder forever, because that's when the rift opens over the ship. "Megan?" calls her uncle's voice. "M'gann, if you can hear me, come home."

She turns to the crew, who face her with awe. She'll never be only Megan to them now. She'll never be 'little lady' or 'lass' again, even if she stays.

"Thank you," she says, and her throat is tight and her tongue is thick. "I enjoyed the time I had with you. You've taught me much. And...and I'll miss you. All of you."

She waits a moment, but no one says anything, so she turns and takes off, hoping to hide her tears.

"Megan," William says. And, "Megan."

The call is taken up, and soon the whole crew is chanting her name. They scream above the rising wind, and William shouts, "We will never forget your name!"

She smiles through her tears, heart as light as her body. It hurts to leaves, and she knows she'll never forget them, either. But it's time, and the rift is wobbling, and the storm is almost upon them.

She's bathed by the light, and suddenly, she's gone.

Jacob and his crew stare up at the sky, the storm dissipating with the rift. "We will never forget your name," William whispers to the silence and the sea.

They never do.


End file.
